


that doesn't mean what you think

by thescyfychannel



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, it's literally all fluff, most of the avengers are mentioned but it's mainly those four, presumably, set post recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-30 22:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6444145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So it's like this, dating's changed a hell of a lot, but you've always had a good wingman. Only, now you've got like eight, and New York is incredibly different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	that doesn't mean what you think

**Author's Note:**

> also for thii2ii2tupiid. you're rolling in gift writing. sorry bro.

So—you know Steve told you that the longer hair is in, and that you’ve got some sort of, “rugged good looks?” going for you, but if you’re being honest the kid couldn’t insult a housefly without apologizing after. Not to mention that the years have worn off the polish some, and you’re pretty sure there’s no dating school for former Russian super-assassins—scratch that, scratch that, you’re not even going to _think_ that joke within a mile of her, she’ll laugh her ass off at you.

So you’re fairly sure that hitting up the one with the bows and arrows—Hawkeye? _really?_ —was a good move. Maybe you knew how _Natalia_ worked, but _Nat_ was a whole different ball game, and you were playing with two strikes and the bases loaded.

Plus, she wore _red_. Way to kill a fella early on.

 

When you asked Steve for date ideas—and _no,_ it’s not weird, so what if you were the popular one way back when (and _Christ_ if that wasn’t a long time ago), Steve’s the one who’s been fully cognizant in the here and now for way longer than you have, it’s _sensible_ , you can get into your issues later—Stark just so _happened_ to be in the room and just so _happened_ to overhear.

He also happened to snort and mutter, “Netflix and Chill” under his breath.

You nodded almost immediately. “Sounds good. Something relaxed, so there’s no pressure on either of us–”

Steve goes pink. Stark bursts out laughing.

In an almost _halting_ voice, Steve says, “That doesn’t mean what you think it means, Buck.”

 

You look it up later. He’s right. That’s more of a third date thing.

 

Wilson suggests a picnic. That’s something not even you can screw up—or misconstrue as something that’s _not_ a double entendre—and Stark volunteers the use of his greenhouse. You don’t have to mention that you’ll feel safer indoors, with cameras to keep an eye on things. He doesn’t have to hear it to know. Part of your mind’s still back with Hydra, part of it’s still in Brooklyn, part of it’s in Europe and maybe _some_ of it’s here but that’s still two-and-a-half parts war zone and you’ll _pass_ on the extra lines of sight, thanks much.

 

You have good days and bad days. The good days have been more common lately, and you’re not one to complain.

 

Thor—no _really_ , they’ve got the _actual_ God of Thunder hanging around. You’re kinda sure that’s blasphemy or something—offers to handle food, and Banner—you still can’t believe he turns into the big green guy—promises to make sure that the food’s not going to turn you into horses. Thor insists that was of Loki’s own volition. Banner promises anyway.

Pepper—she tells you “Ms. Potts” is sweet, but Pepper’s definitely fine—makes you an itinerary. Rhodes—or, it might’ve been Rhodey? He’s promised to handle some kind of security shit, but he’s with the army, you’re not sure if that’s worrying or good—tells her she should’ve made copies. He’s right. Stark loses it within a minute of her leaving the room. That might’ve been intentional.

 

Nat finds it and folds it into a paper airplane. You discover this at the same time that you discover she has _excellent_ aiming skills with weaponized origami.

Also, she wants to know if she should wear a sundress. You inform her that you don’t own a matching one.

 

You are _not_ riding in a limo.

 

You are _not_ riding in an Uber. You don’t even know what it is, but you’re sure as hell not riding in one.

 

You compromise on a cab. Cabs are good.

 

Stark finds the _oldest_ running _vintage_ taxi he can. You’re not even sure it’s legal.

You’re even less sure about _Fury_ driving.

If this is some kind of collective attempt to intimidate you into good behavior—you’re not exactly, sure, what Steve’s told them about the good ol’ days, _but_ —it’s _definitely working_.

At least, it’s working up until Nat shows up in a floppy hat and a polka dot sundress—it doesn’t _seem_ like her when you picture it, but the whole thing looks so damn _right_ —and smiles up at you. It’s a little hard to be scared of Fury bringing S.H.I.E.L.D. down on your head or the Wrath of Thor or even the Disappointment of _Steve_ when she’s giving you that smile.

 

“You got us a taxi for our date?” The inflection says question, but the sparkle in her eyes says she _knows_ what’s really going on—and if you’re being honest with yourself, she probably knows more about it than you do—and you offer her what you hope—remember—is called a charming smile.

“Honestly? It’s been a group effort so far.”

You chalk up a mental point when she has to bite back a giggle. “I’d _heard_.” You don’t want to know where. Scratch the point. “I’m looking forward to it–”

She falters on your name, and your world sort of spins.

 

You’re not the only one. _You’re not the only one_.

Sometimes it had _felt_ like it, sometimes you’d _forgotten_ , sometimes it seemed like she was so together, but you’d found her practicing a ballet routine or consecrating punching bags—she beat the _hell_ outta ‘em—at four in the morning and you’d _forgotten_ that it had been at four in the morning that you’d worked up the courage to ask her out after your tenth spar in as many days.

You’re not the only one that’s got scars all over your damn psyche. You’re not the only one caught dreaming in the Red Room.

You’re not _alone._

 

“Bucky. Maybe Jimmy, if you promise not to laugh. Or I’m restricting you to James, and we’ll all be miserable.” You say, grinning—and this time you _know_ it’s charming—and offer her your hand.

She raises an eyebrow—you can see the gratitude in her eyes, though—and takes your hand. “For that, I’m going to think of an even _more_ embarrassing nickname.”

“You’ve got a guy who calls himself War Machine. I think I’m set.”

(And a nickname will mean they’re not so scared, they’re getting confident enough to _joke_. It’ll mean you’re starting to fit in. Sort of. Slowly. Hell, what’s the worst she could do?)

 

Within two weeks, the entirety of S.H.I.E.L.D. is addressing you as _Sergeant Barney_. You’re fairly sure you heard someone humming that _stupid_ theme song you’d had to look up. Someone painted your door purple.

 

You think you’re in love.


End file.
